Many Guises and Many Names
by Gandalfs apprentice
Summary: Drabbles and vignettes about Aragorn. Elfstone WINNER FIRST PLACE BEST ELF OTHER FLF. King's Man WINNER SECOND PLACE BEST VIGNETTE THE GREAT YEARS. Work Detail WINNER SECOND PLACE BEST ROMANCE FLF.
1. Elfstone

Elfstone

The smith let the still-dark stone cool after the forging of the eagle's wings. Then, cradling it in his palm, he awakened its hidden power with his breath

At a quiet pond rimmed with moss and ferns, he dipped the stone into the water's green-gold depths and felt the power surge. He raised the stone to the light of the sky:

_Jewel, heal wounds of despair;  
Light, renew all worthy arts.  
Eagle, bring hope to the children;  
Fire, rekindle barren hearts._

In his exultant fingers a green sun blazed in the span of the fierce eagle's wings. It was done.


	2. Reckoning

With a relieved sigh, Gilraen sank into a deep chair. Since waking at dawn, her son had been climbing stairs, running on his sturdy legs through gardens and hallways, shrieking with delighted glee at each new thing and befriending each new person. His mother struggled to keep up.

At last, she could rest. He was quietly playing by himself, absorbed in a pair of toy wooden horses, exquisitely carved and burnished by Elven hands. Watching him coax the horses along the carpet in jumps and trots, one in each fist, she marveled at his young resilience. _What happened to the terrified little boy calling for his father?_ _Is Lord Elrond right—he will forget Arathorn, forget our people, forget even his own name? _

The door opened. "Good morning, Gilraen, Estel," said Elrond.

Her son ran to hug the Elven-lord's legs, crying, "Papa!"

"Look, Estel, I have brought you two more horses."

"I have four horses, mama," he shouted.

Her eyes blurring with sudden tears, she reached out to him. "Areg, come here."

"Not Areg, mama. Estel. Papa, play with me!"

Meeting her eyes over the boy's small, dark head, Elrond smiled sympathetically. "Go rest, Gilraen. I'll look after him now."

_Note: Thanks to Gwynnyd for helping me with diminutives in Sindarin. "Areg," formed from the first syllable of Aragorn's name and the suffix –eg (roughly equivalent to the English –let), means "little king" or, perhaps, "kinglet."_


	3. Horse Thief

Horse Thief

Glorfindel stood with his arms crossed, one toe tapping impatiently, waiting for the family argument to settle down.

"You offended his sense of justice," Elrohir said to his brother.

"Perhaps I did," snorted Elladan. "But isn't this a rather extreme response?"

Elrond raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. "I can remember…," he began.

Elladan held up his palm. "Peace, father. Don't remind me yet again of the incident with the tree." He paced the room, further irritated by sorry memories of a whole week spent pouting at the top of an oak. How many _yéni_ would have to pass before his father would stop bringing it up? "But what are we to do?"

"The sentries will stop him at the pass, as you well know," Elrond said. "No one leaves the Valley if I do not allow it, no more than they enter. He is perfectly safe."

Glorfindel let out a sigh of exasperation.

"Are you going to claim that your horse is in danger?" Elrond said, with more than a hint of irony.

"No, of course not," Glorfindel said. "But I can't allow this to go by without some consequence."

"Indeed not," Elrond said. "Horse thievery is not the future occupation that I wish for my foster son, even if he shows good judgment in taking the best one."

"Stubborn boy," muttered Elladan. "Stiff-necked Dúnadan."

"That, too," said Elrond. He waited, watching his elder son patiently.

"All right, I owe him an apology," said Elladan at last. "I'll go myself to fetch him back."

"Good idea," said Elrond. "And then you are going to explain it to Gilraen."

Elladan groaned. That, indeed, was going to be by far the most unpleasant part.

When he heard the sentry's low whistle, Elladan brought his mount to a stop. Through the trees he could see Asfaloth contentedly grazing on the lush grass in a small clearing. He looked up. The sentry's grinning face peeped out of the leaves. He pointed up. Elladan could just see the tips of Estel's shoes sticking out over a branch. He sighed.

"Estel," he called.

"What do you want?" the boy said in a rather rude tone.

"I want to apologize."

There was a silence. Then, with a loud rustling of leaves, the boy began climbing down and soon dropped to the ground from a large branch. He stood there, silent, as full of wrath as an eleven-year-old can be.

Elladan dismounted, and, holding the reins, faced his opponent. Grey thunder looked out at him from under a scowling frown. _The fury in those eyes would stop an army of Orcs_, he thought. _And soon enough he will be facing one._ Estel was even now in the middle of a growth spurt that had added a good inch to his height and left his hands and feet much too large for the rest of him.

Elladan bowed. "My lord," he said, "I seek your pardon. I have been most intolerably unfair. I should not make promises I cannot keep."

"No. You should not," the boy agreed. There was no quarter in those eyes.

"I underestimated you," he continued. "I did not think you could meet my challenge. Indeed, your bowmanship has improved greatly, and you hit the target three times beyond my dare. But I had made you a promise beyond my power."

"Yes. You did," came the inexorable reply.

"It is by my father's order that you must stay in the Valley, and I cannot undo that. Despite my false promise, I cannot take you with me to hunt Orcs—not yet. It is my duty to obey my father's order even as it is yours. And it was grossly unfair of me to twit you about that party of Dwarves that was visiting last winter."

Insatiable curiosity began to take over the wrath in the boy's eyes. "Why couldn't I meet them," he asked, almost sadly.

"It is my father's order," Elladan repeated, "and thus for neither of us to question."

Estel opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of it. His look of resignation combined with his hunger for experience touched Elladan's heart. "Come now," he said gently. "Do you forgive me?"

"Yes, Elladan. I forgive you."

"All right then. Let's go home."

As they cantered back, side by side on the smooth trail past the first steep climb down into the Valley, Elladan asked, "But Estel, why Asfaloth?"

"Well, I thought that riding him was the only way I might be able to get out of the Valley. Don't think I don't know how strong father's protection is."

"But it didn't work."

"No," answered the boy. "It looked really good all the way up, but then he just stopped cold as soon as I got to the top. He wouldn't move an inch."

"He's a very intelligent horse," said Elladan.

"Yes," said Estel. "I really love riding him. And I packed up my saddlebags with a lot of good food and gear for hunting. I was all ready."

Elladan decided not to comment on this.

"But now I suppose Glorfindel will skin me alive."

"Actually," Elladan said, "he's going to make you help muck out the stables for a month."

"Really?"

"Really."

"But I won't mind that. I love being with the horses."

"Shush. Don't tell him."

Then Estel turned to him with a mischievous grin. "And what is your punishment?"

"Besides having to apologize to the most stubborn boy in Middle-earth?"

The grin widened. "Yes, besides that."

Elladan sighed. "I have to explain it to your mother."

The boy burst out laughing, and, kicking Asfaloth into a run, he laughed all the way back to the House, his tangled hair streaming in the wind.

Smiling, Elladan shook his head. The next few years were going to be very interesting.


	4. The King's Dagger

The King's Dagger

_This blade is enchanted_, great-grandfather said. _While you bear it, no evil men or Orcs can harm you._ She wasn't sure she believed him, but every day she carried it, its slim weight tugging at her belt as she gathered berries or wood, herded the goats, fed the chickens. Although the red damask hilt had faded, the black blade could cut through green wood like butter.

That day, she must have been daydreaming. The men approached so quietly that she heard nothing until a voice said, "Don't be afraid, mistress."

Startled, she whipped out the dagger and whirled to face the threat. Two young men, tall, dark-haired, their weaponless hands raised in a gesture of peace, stood at the garden gate.

"Rangers!" she said, thrusting the blade toward them. "What do you want?"

"A warm place for the night," said one.

She walked toward them, the knife clenched before her. She stopped short of their reach, the fence between them, and stared into their faces. "Why are you here?"

"We mean no harm," the man said. "We will work for your trouble."

They stood patiently, hands raised, unmoved, until the dagger caught the glance of the taller one. His eyes lit in recognition.

She pointed the black blade at his chest, firming her grip. "It is a magic blade," she said warningly, "a gift from the king for our service. Beware, if you intend evil here."

"Many years ago, then," said the man. "A great honor."

The respect in his voice surprised her. "You know of the Old Kings?" she said.

"We do." His steady, clear eyes held her gaze. "And of the power of such blades against harm."

_He speaks true, _she thought with wonder. _He knows. _"All right, then," she said, lowering her arm. "You may come in."


	5. Rider of Rohan

Rider of Rohan

The stranger's dark hair and height marked him as a man of Gondor, but he spoke in an oddly accented Common Speech. "I am new to the third éored, and need equipment for that company."

Thengel's armorer shouted, in Rohirric so that the stranger could not understand, "Do we have any horses big enough, Frélaf?"

Frélaf looked up and grunted with surprise. "A few. But with these dark-hairs favored by the King, we'll need more. Or we can chop the riders short, maybe."

From the gleam of those keen eyes, the armorer wondered if the man understood Rohirric after all.


	6. Longing

Longing

_Though all to ruin fell the world__  
__and were dissolved and backward hurled,__  
__unmade into the old abyss,__  
__yet were its making good, for this,__  
__the dawn the dusk, the earth the sea,__  
__that Lúthien on a time should be._

In the Great Hall of Gondor the lords and ladies fell silent as the minstrel's tenor poured forth Beren's ardent love.

Captain Thorongil sat at the Steward's high table, his head bowed, dismayed at the painful leaping of his heart. _Why must every young singer take on the test of this song?_ he asked himself irritably. _And I cannot leave without drawing notice._

He sighed. _Yet here no dangers loom, no watch must be kept, no men commanded. _

For a little while, he could indulge the rapture and torment of his desire. He closed his eyes and sank into memory.


	7. A Thin Line Between Love and Hate

A Thin Line Between Love and Hate

Denethor heard the news with great satisfaction. The captain had crippled the corsairs, at little cost to Gondor, lifting a great burden from the folk of the shore, and, by extension, from the Steward. Then that upstart sellsword had disappeared—_deserted_, Denethor told his father.

What then was that stab of pain when next the Steward's son saw the golden throne, empty and silent? _Till the King shall come again_, came the unbidden thought. Regret and loss replaced envy and hate. _Thorongil! In the time of Gondor's glory, I would have been the King's man and your brother at arms._


	8. Epiphany

_epiphany, n. A sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience._

Denethor knew that useful information may come in unexpected packages, but from his sharp-tongued, heedless sister Morwen he had endured only ignorant gossip. Until that day.

He and Captain Thorongil were reviewing with the Steward the disposition of the men in Ithilien, a map spread on the table before them. "In Osgiliath," Thorongil was saying, a glint in his grey eyes—when Morwen's unmistakable voice rang out. A moment later she burst through the door. "My lord father, my son is an idiot!"

Ecthelion frowned with evident displeasure. "Daughter, we are engaged."

"You must speak to him," she said, her haughty eyes flashing. "You must dismiss that archivist--that seditionist. He told my son that the council of Pelendur was wrong! Now the boy is repeating this insanity."

Turning abruptly, Captain Thorongil strode to the window, but not before Denethor caught an interesting blaze in those keen eyes.

"He says it's true that Isildur was High King of both North and South! That he was the elder son, and so King in Gondor!"

Ecthelion raised a hand and said sharply, "Daughter, I am aware of the argument. Now is not the time."

But neither her father nor all the Orcs in Mordor could stop Morwen. "Father, that treasonous old man told my son that descendants of Arvedui may yet live in the North! What's more, they would be descendants of Anárion through Fíriel. He said that if one ever comes to claim the crown, Gondor should acknowledge him!"

Ecthelion sighed. "Many in Gondor agree with him. But it is a moot point. If there are such descendants, they have kept their silence for nearly a thousand years."

Captain Thorongil stood still and silent at the window, like a statue of the King, and an unwelcome thought crept into Denethor's mind.


	9. Spinning

Spinning

On the distaff the knot of storm-grey fibers thinned as on the spindle the skein of silky thread fattened.

_The color of his eyes._

The slow rhythm of her hands and fingers, forming the fine strands, filled her days.

_Too many days._

The change had crept up on her.

_Too many years_.

But not even a quarter of a _yéni_ had in truth passed.

His heartbeat hovered at the horizon of her thought; she knew that the treacheries of mortality had not claimed him.

_But yet he does not come_. _What changes have the years wrought? Has another won his love?_

The leaves had gilded, fallen, bloomed again, and yet again. Still he did not come.

_Is this how it will be?_ she wondered. _Will that other part of my Elven blood count the days, the months, the year? Will I too change like the leaves in the seasons?_

Impossibly long ago, when they had met under the trees in Rivendell, she had refused him. He had sworn he would seek her again, would again ask for her love. Now she dreamed of him at night. Her laughter fell silent.

Day after day, at the loom in her grandmother's workroom, she wove the thread she had spun, passing the shuttle back and forth, her feet pressing the peddles to shift the warp. The silver-grey cloth lengthened. Again the leaves turned gold, fell, bloomed. He had not come.

A movement at the edge of her sight distracted her as the warden entered, seeking the Lady. "A Man is asking admittance to the Wood, my lady. He says he is lord of the Dúnedain, and he bears your brother's ring."

"He is a friend, warden. Bring him to me."

Her blood surging, Arwen knew that nothing would ever again be the same.


	10. Waiting

Waiting

Enjoying the peace of the late afternoon, Gilraen closed her eyes, wondering when her son would come home. For 25 years she had not laid eyes on him, but the word had come that he was returning at last. The sun warmed her face, but then she felt a shadow cross it. She opened her eyes and with a leap of her heart saw her dead husband standing before her.

"Estel!" She threw herself into his arms, weeping. "You are so like him, my son, so like him," and smiling and holding her close, Aragorn understood what she meant.


	11. Pipeweed

Pipeweed

Icy gusts waked Gandalf from his reverie before the roaring fire in the taproom of the Prancing Pony. He peered expectantly over the glowing bowl of his pipe to see a tall, dark-haired man, swathed in a dripping-wet green cloak and hood, standing in the doorway. Gandalf flicked his hand in a quick signal.

As Aragorn made his way across the crowded taproom, Hobbits and Men alike cast him dark looks; one muttered, "Watch out, Strider's here!" At Gandalf's table, the Ranger threw off his cloak and reached his hands out to the fire.

"You're late," Gandalf said.

"Couldn't be helped," Aragorn shrugged. "Business at Sarn Ford. You don't mind a day or two of loafing over Butterbur's beer, do you?"

Gandalf grunted, took a long draw on his pipe and blew several luxurious smoke rings. "Anything of note?"

"Nothing unusual. I'll tell you when I've had a smoke and some hot food."

"Fair enough."

Sitting down, Aragorn reached inside his jerkin and brought out a pipe and a sweet-smelling pouch of pipeweed. He pushed the pouch toward Gandalf. "Longbottom Leaf. I've brought some for you."

"What a handsome, fragrant wad," Gandalf said. He cleared his throat. "I do have a matter I wish to discuss with you." He closed his eyes and sucked at his pipe, knowing the delay would irk his friend. "When are you going to tell me?"

Aragorn arched his brows. "Tell you?"

"Come now, my friend," Gandalf said. "It's not easy to surprise me, and we know each other well."

Aragorn took refuge in applying a light to his well-tamped weed.

"Last year, Elrond tells me. So that's why you stayed so long in Lórien!"

"Now you know," Aragorn said, with one of his rare, mirthful smiles. "It changes nothing."

"Nothing and everything," Gandalf said. "Is it true you vowed that no marriage will take place until you win the thrones of both Gondor and Arnor?"

"She should have no less," Aragorn said gruffly.

Gandalf waved his pipe in the air. "I understand the lady herself is not as demanding as either her father or her betrothed."

"Perhaps," Aragorn said.

"Your heart is now one with your duty, I guess."

"That is so."

Gandalf let the silence stretch on a while before he continued, "And you will be Beren as well as Elendil."

Aragorn shifted restlessly in his chair, one corner of his mouth quirking in a rueful smile. "Only you would dare to say that. You know my views."

"For a man with so little pride, you have remarkable goals," Gandalf chuckled. "I have heard nothing for many years that has given me so much pleasure."

"Thank you."

An elderly Hobbit stumped abruptly to the table. "I suppose you want some food," he said to Gandalf in a surly voice. "But why you share your table with Strider is beyond me."

One knobby finger tapping the aromatic weed pouch, Gandalf winked at the old fellow. "He brings me the best pipeweed in the Shire."


	12. Hobbits and Husbands

Halbarad was writing an entry in the logbook when his son Thorbarad stuck his head in the door and said, "Aragorn is here."

Surprised, the chieftain's lieutenant looked up, removed the pipe from his mouth, and said, "Aragorn? So soon?"

"He said he must see you at once. He's stowing his gear. I told him where to find you."

"All right. Fetch some ale. He'll be thirsty."

"Right away, father."

He resumed writing, but was far from finished when the familiar long stride sounded in the hallway. Aragorn entered without knocking, sat down and began to prepare his pipe. His grey eyes were dark with worry and fatigue, his jaw set in a determination Halbarad knew well.

"I wasn't expecting you till at least next week," Halbarad said.

"A change of plans," the chieftain answered, pausing to draw on the pipe and get a good light on the weed. "I must be off again in the morning. I'll be heading across the mountains and expect to be gone through the spring at least."

"Across the mountains? Why, are you going back to Gondor to challenge Denethor in his bastion?"

"Nothing so easy," Aragorn quipped with a grim smile. "It's urgent, and I'm here only to give you orders. We've got to double the guard on the Shire immediately."

"Whatever for? We just increased it a few years back. Are the Hobbits planning a mutiny?"

Aragorn shook his head. "I can't tell you the reason. It's on Gandalf's urging. Be prepared to sacrifice almost anything to accomplish this, save the basic defense of the Keep itself."

"It's no easy chore you give me," Halbarad exclaimed. "The Shire is the most peaceful spot in all Eriador. The men already grumble that we put too many of our forces there."

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. "Grumble? The usual complaining of cold and hungry men, or do they question my orders?"

To Halbarad's relief, Thorbarad came in then with the ale. Aragorn was silent while he served the mugs to the two men and then slipped out.

Halbarad took a long swallow. "Usual complaining at this point, I would say, but you know there will be questions. What danger does the Shire pose to anyone or anything?"

Grim amusement lit Aragorn's eyes. "I do appreciate that," he said. "Likewise, it is difficult to see why anyone—even Sauron—would seek to harm such innocent creatures. All the same, I can't tell you what Gandalf's reasons are. Suffice it to say that only Elrond and I know the full story, and it is the same business that takes me across the mountains. The less anyone else knows, the better off we are. My authority, and Gandalf's, ought to be sufficient in the men's eyes."

"All right," Halbarad sighed. "I will impress upon them that we are working on the 'need to know' principle."

"If I could, I would stay to speak to the captains myself. I know I'm asking a lot of you: to lead men in something you yourself cannot explain. But the lives of us all may now depend on the Rangers' vigilance."

The glint in his eye told Halbarad all he needed to know. A shiver of apprehension prickled up his spine. "I understand," he said. "What about you? Where are you going, and what will you be doing?"

"Hunting," Aragorn said. "Wherever the search takes me."

"You mean to go to Rivendell first, I assume."

"I've already been there," Aragorn said. "Tomorrow I head for the Redhorn Pass to meet Gandalf. He is taking council with Elrond as we speak."

"You stayed one night in the Valley?"

"Just so," he answered.

"Arwen must not have liked that."

"She didn't. But it's hardly the first time."

"And you are again going into great danger."

"No doubt," Aragorn agreed.

Halbarad shook his head. "That will displease the captains just as much as any guard on the Shire."

"I tire of these complaints."

"What do you expect, Aragorn? You're seventy years old. You have no sons, and you refuse to marry. Then you go walking into Mordor every other day. Shouldn't we be worried?"

"I don't refuse to marry."

Halbarad rolled his eyes. "Let me clarify. You refuse to marry anyone but Elrond's daughter, after you've been crowned King of Gondor and Arnor. Is that better?"

"Much better," said Aragorn.

Halbarad slammed his hand on the table. "Of all the pig-headed, impossible men—you know what I mean. The women will be griping again. At least all those eager to provide you with an heir, and their mothers."

"The sooner I leave, the better, then. I'm much more afraid of the women griping than the Rangers grumbling," he said. Only the gleam in his eye gave away his amusement.

"I suppose I would be too, if they chased me around the Keep like that. Soon they will take up hatchets to bring you down."

"And you wonder why I will marry only Arwen? Would you marry a woman who chased you with hatchets?"

"Somehow," Halbarad countered, "I don't think the absence of a hatchet is why you prefer Arwen."

"You have me there," Aragorn said, smiling.

Halbarad snorted and resumed his log entry. Aragorn settled into his chair and smoked and drank in silence. In a few minutes Halbarad threw down his quill and rose to fetch a map off the huge rack on the wall. He spread it out on the table, weighting each corner with a polished rock. The Shire lay before them, roads marked in black, streams in blue, villages in pale red. _Hobbiton, Michel Delving, Buckland._

"Now," he began, "the main entry points are the road from Sarn Ford in the south, Brandywine Bridge from the east, and the Great East Road from the Tower Hills. Assuming we place the bulk of our forces at these spots, that leaves less traveled entries. What do you think about….."

By the time they had formed a plan, the pitcher of ale was dry.


	13. The Hobbit and the Man

The Hobbit and the Man

_All that is gold does not glitter,_

_Not all those who wander are lost._

_The old that is strong does not wither,_

_Deep roots are not reached by the frost._

_From the ashes a fire shall be woken,_

_A light from the shadows shall spring._

_Renewed shall be blade that was broken,_

_The crownless again shall be king._

Gandalf had said, "You must meet another old friend of mine, a Man, who will help me find the creature. And my dear fellow, he is just your type. You might find him a worthy advisor in your next attempt at impressing Rivendell with your poems."

Bilbo had not known many Men, aside from those in Dale and a few in Bree with whom he had passing acquaintance. Apparently this one was the Chief of the Rangers who were now, Gandalf said, vigilantly guarding the Shire from the threats of the Wild. Bilbo's unerring nose for a story told him there was a good one here.

They met in the gardens of Rivendell. Things were off to a promising start when the Man handed Bilbo a pouch of the best Longbottom Leaf. "I've just come from the borders of the Shire," he said, "and I understand from Gandalf that you will enjoy this as much as I. Shall we?"

So in companionable silence they lit their pipes and got up a good smoke.

"I find myself at a disadvantage," Bilbo said. "I believe that Gandalf forgot to tell me your name, or who you are, beyond being the Chief of the Rangers."

"My name is Aragorn," he said. "As for the rest, let us put that aside for the present. Come! Tell me all about Gollum, so that I may know how to track him. Tell me everything you remember. No detail is unimportant."

Bilbo discovered that in response to the Man's persistent questions, he remembered far more than he realized. Finally, the Man said, "Thank you. You've been remarkably helpful. I fear that now I must leave you," and bowed politely before he left.

It wasn't until he had met the Dúnadan (as he discovered the Elves liked to call him) several more times that he got the answer to his question. And then he thought, really, Gandalf had gotten it backward. He wasn't going to ask Aragorn for advice on his next poem. He was going to write it about him.


	14. Tharbad Crossing

Tharbad Crossing

Half-drowned, bleeding, weeping as the wild water claimed his terrified, screaming horse, Boromir crawled onto the bank of the angry river.

He had lost horse, saddlebags and sword. He had now only the clothes on his back, his shield and, most precious, the great Horn of Gondor. _What madness sent me on this mindless quest?_ _Father was right—our despair compels us to chase moonbeams._

Then he remembered his brother's hopeful face as he spoke of the voice of the dream and the far light in the West. _Whatever awaits me in the North, I will find it. For Gondor!_


	15. Suspicion

Suspicion

"Just look at him, Mr. Frodo," whispered Sam.

Frodo looked. Strider sat cross-legged not far away, sharpening a lethal-looking blade, the firelight flickering on his grim face.

"He's got more metal on him than the blacksmith," insisted Sam. "Knives and a whole sword and that broken one, too. Does an honest fellow need all that?"

"In the Shire, no," said Frodo. "But here? I think he really is a friend of Gandalf's."

"Poppycock!" said Sam. "I'll believe that when I hear it from the old man himself. But don't worry, Mr. Frodo. I won't let that Strider get at you."


	16. Plain Hobbit Sense

**Plain Hobbit Sense**

Boromir frowned as the Ranger, with his long stride, vanished down a corridor of Elrond's house.

_Aragorn son of Arathorn Elrond called him, and the scholars say the Northern Kings took such names as a sign of their claim. Underneath that battered cloak I see a man of Númenorean blood, and damn my eyes if that is not Elendil's sword. Yet he spurns me, the Steward's son of Gondor? Is the man mad?_

Naturally, after the Council meeting, Boromir had sought out the one now revealed as Isildur's Heir. But after allowing Boromir a close look at Narsil, Aragorn said, "We must delay further speech, I fear—the scouts leave at once to search for any remaining dangers to Frodo, and I must go with them." He left Boromir standing there.

"I didn't like him, either, at first," said a voice behind him.

Boromir turned to see the Hobbit named Sam Gamgee.

"He wasn't much to look at," continued Sam, "when we met in Bree. Fit to scare the daylights out of honest folk, Strider was. Strange, too—you wouldn't want him in your parlor. But I found out different."

He paused, his brown eyes warm with sincerity. "Mr. Gandalf, he says we would never of got here without him. He says hardly nobody could have kept those Black Riders off Mr. Frodo the way Strider could. I saw it. Old Strider, he's got a thing or two up his sleeve, and not just a broken sword, either."

He nodded at Boromir with an encouraging smile.

Boromir gaped at the impudent little creature. _What a strange place the North is! Cheeky Halflings, ragged kings. What next?_ Laughing, he took Sam's hand. "I will keep your words in mind," he said solemnly.

"You had better," said Sam. "It's plain Hobbit sense."


	17. A Son's Farewell

A Son's Farewell

Turning to face him, his foster father smiled warmly. "You are leaving, my son."

Aragorn nodded. He gripped Elrond in a tight embrace. "_Atarinya_, for your care of me, your love, I thank you." He stood back, his hands gripping Elrond's arms. "It may be that I will not return."

"I pray that you will achieve all that I have hoped for you," said Elrond.

Aragorn bowed his head. "If I do not, do not let her grieve. Take her across the Sea." Then with one last clasp of Elrond's hands, he went to join the rest of the Fellowship.

_atarinya_: Quenya, "my father"


	18. Kings MAn

King's Man

_Over the land there lies a long shadow,  
westward reaching wings of darkness.  
The Tower trembles; to the tombs of kings  
doom approaches. The Dead awaken;  
for the hour is come for the oathbreakers;  
at the Stone of Erech they shall stand again  
and hear there a horn in the hills ringing.  
Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them  
from the grey twilight, the forgotten people?  
The heir of him to whom the oath they swore.  
From the North shall he come, need shall drive him:  
he shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead._

"Dúnedain of the North!"

As if to summon the very mountains. Aragorn, mounted on his great horse, swept his bright sword into the air, calling the thirty horsemen to attention. Weary as he was, he looked like the king he was soon to be. Proud and sure, Halbarad reined his horse beside his captain, holding the standard of Elendil yet furled.

"Here at the Hornburg of Rohan we few are gathered," Aragorn's voice rang out, "when once the knights of Arnor riding with Elendil and Gil-galad numbered in the thousands. Yet we have the hope of a victory far greater than that won by the Last Alliance. I speak of the hope that Elrond revealed to you before you rode South.

"My comrades, know this: a force of corsairs threatens Gondor. Minas Tirith will fall before ten days are gone. We alone can save the White City, but only by passing through great peril. I go now on a path appointed, the Paths of the Dead, to summon the oathbreakers, who must fight against Sauron at the bidding of the Heir of Isildur to win the peace of the grave.

"No dishonor will fall on you if you go with the forces of the Rohirrim. For I have revealed myself to Sauron as Elessar, Elendil's Heir, and shown him the sword reforged, Andúril, the Flame of the West. My purpose is to draw his Eye away from the peril that will destroy him. At the fields of the Pelennor I will raise the banner of Elendil before the gates of the White City. And if the West fails, the wrath of Sauron will fall hardest on me and on all who are with me. Therefore I command no man to follow me. Will you come, men of the North?"

Halbarad drew his sword and saluted his captain. "Aragorn!" he shouted, and around him the Grey Company raised the call, their spears glinting in the bright noon.

Aragorn bowed his head, acknowledging their allegiance, and raised yet again his sword that seemed alight with the very fires of heaven. The green stone shone out on his breast, and despite his pallor men could see his grim resolve. Halbarad raised a great horn, and its blast echoed against the rocky walls. Aragorn turned his proud bay stallion, Roheryn, and with a cry led the force out of the valley of Helm's Deep.

They rode hard that day, stopping only to water and rest their mounts. The night was old before at last they halted for a hot meal and a few hours' sleep.

After seeing to the men and the horses, Halbarad sought out his captain. Aragorn was alone for the moment, sitting at a smaller fire away from the cook pots. Silent, he stared into the blaze. Andúril in its jeweled sheath lay across his knees, his hands resting upon it.

Halbarad knelt at his side. "All are well, men and horses," he said.

Aragorn nodded. "I will speak to the men when I have eaten."

He searched Aragorn's face with a critical eye. "You look a little better."

The chieftain's brief smile did not reach his eyes. "The weariness is slow to pass."

Halbarad nodded. He knew what Aragorn did not say: The dread of his contact with the Dark Lord through the _palantír_ yet haunted him. He would never forget it.

The lieutenant sat down beside his chieftain, leaning his arms and chin on one raised knee. "So here we are at last, in the war we always knew was coming. It's a long time since that young man who had just learned his name wandered into the Angle, isn't it, my friend?"

He was rewarded with a genuine smile. "Indeed," Aragorn said. "And where would that Elven princeling have been without you?"

They both chuckled, remembering the Dúnedain's harsh judgment of the young Estel as their chieftain.

"Well," Halbarad said. There was so much to say, but so little need to say it—all the years of fighting and friendship hovered between them. "Soon you will have all your hope."

"Or all hope's end," Aragorn murmured. "As Arwen put it. And if we succeed—why then, Halbarad, I'll need you all the more at my side—you, who I trust most to tell me when I'm wrong."

"Yes, I've always been good at that. The first of the duties of the king's man."

They fell then into the easy silence of intimacy, remembering the cold, rainy nights as Rangers in the wild; quarrels both personal and political; laughter; too few nights of too much ale and pipeweed at the inn in Bree; the many times one had saved the life of the other.

Above, the stars blazed bright and cold in a clear sky, and the glow of the fire lit their warrior's faces.

After, Aragorn thought of that night as his farewell to his best friend and chief lieutenant. When Halbarad died at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, the life was gone from his eyes before any man could say goodbye, even his own sons. Only then did the king's man lose hold of the banner of Elendil.


	19. At the Pig and Thistle

At the Pig and Thistle

Once he got used to it, Pippin enjoyed being a Guardsman again, now that he had recovered from his wounds. True, he had a lot of work to do, but he looked forward to merriment in the pubs at night, for the City was vigorously celebrating the downfall of Sauron and the crowning of the new King. And now that Strider was in the City, Pippin found that his reputation as one of the Nine Walkers and a personal friend of Elessar opened hearts and doors.

"It's not that I've made up my mind about him, you realize," said the barkeep at his favorite pub, the Pig and Thistle, where the ale was almost as good as at the Green Dragon. "We haven't had a king for some thousand years, and nobody ever thought it would be any different. True, he's done some wonderful things, and not just swinging that magic sword—he saved my sister's grandson's life. For that he has my allegiance."

Taking a big slurp of ale, Pippin wiped his mouth and nodded.

"But I learned a long time ago that it takes more than a fancy title to make a true nobleman. Why, the greatest man I've ever known didn't have any title at all. He was a stranger to the City. I served under him in those years, before an Orc's blade ruined my leg and ended my days as a soldier. This captain would sleep on the ground with his men and eat our food—nothing special for him, always the same that his men had—even if he'd earned honors from the Steward for all his victories. He didn't hold himself our better, but he was a great leader and a true lord, and no title made him that. He'd look at you with those grave eyes of his and you knew you would do your best. He trusted us and we trusted him."

"I see," said Pippin. "And who was he?"

"Nobody really knew. He had no father-name. But he could have taken the measure of this new King, and I'd have trusted his opinion, no matter what. He was bold and courageous, too. He led a fleet against those corsairs and beat them, and he didn't need any ghosts to help. We called him Thorongil, and it was a sorry day in Gondor when he left."

"Er," said Pippin, who had recently learned that his friend Strider had a remarkable past, "I think you're in for a surprise."


	20. Of the History and Habits of Hobbits

Pippin sneezed. "Nobody's been here for centuries, it seems."

"Not so," Faramir countered. "I often visited the archives as a boy, but war has since kept me away."

"Is there anything about the Shire in all this?" Pippin waved his hands vaguely at the stacks of leatherbound volumes and old scrolls.

"Perhaps," Faramir said. "I never looked. I learned about the land of the halflings as a legend of old." He stood before a tall shelf heaped with cobwebbed, ancient books. "This must be cleaned up," he muttered. "It won't do for the King to see the history of Arnor covered with dust."

"Strider won't mind," Pippin said. "He's not a stick-in-the-mud about all that."

"I am thinking about the future, not the past," said Faramir. "Now that the two realms of Númenor in exile are reunited, Arnor's history is ours." He reached for a gilt-edged tome and, laying it on the table, gently wiped it with a soft cloth. "There, Pippin. _The History of Arnor in the Days of Argeleb II_. Aragorn says that Argeleb granted the Shire lands to the Hobbits."

"Argeleb? That's a mouthful," Pippin said.

Faramir opened the cover to reveal a portrait of the king, splendid with the Star of Arnor on his brow. "King Argeleb the Second. His son was Arvegil, and _his_ son was Arveleg, followed by Araval."

"They all have the same name," Pippin said. "Ar-this, Ar-that, and Ara-something."

"Do you know why?"

"Lack of imagination?"

"Do I know more of the North's history than its own son, Master Hobbit?"

"Probably," said Pippin miserably. "As Gandalf has remarked more than once, I played truant more often than scholar. I hardly knew we ever had a King, never mind his name. 'When the King comes back,' we said for something that would never happen."

"There were like-minded men in Gondor," Faramir said. "But I did not forget the ancient lore. The names of Isildur's heirs, as with Aragorn's own, come from _aran,_ 'king' in the Elven tongue, which we Dúnedain also speak."

"Oh," said Pippin. He grasped the edge of a huge page and turned it. Close, elegant writing filled the parchment, embellished with gold and silver. He leafed carefully through the volume, admiring colored drawings of beautiful ladies dancing at court, and brave knights on horseback battling foul Orcs. "Nothing on the Shire," he said regretfully.

But on the last page, tucked into one corner, he found a tiny drawing. A rosy-cheeked musician held a flute to his lips, and a comely lass and stout lad, hands joined, kicked out their large, hairy feet in a vigorous dance.

"It's the springle-ring!" Pippin stood out from the table and cocked up one set of furry toes. "Like this." Humming loudly, he began a lively dance, but stopped abruptly. "I need a partner. Faramir?"

And so Lord Faramir, Steward of King Elessar and Prince of Ithilien, became the first in Gondor to learn the dance that was to sweep the streets of Minas Tirith.


	21. Work Detail

Work Detail

The Queen knelt on the bed beside her napping husband, who half-opened one eye and smiled sleepily.

"I have wide hips," she said.

His surprised mind struggled with this odd remark. He murmured, "Lovely they are, too. Your ankles are enchanting, and the rest, well…."

"Ankles? What have ankles to do with it?" she demanded, slowly drawing the covers from his naked shoulders.

"Aren't we discussing your beauty?" he asked, perplexed.

"Wake up, Estel," she said, laughing. "I've talked to the midwife, and she says I can bear a Man's child easily."

"You mean…." he began. Her tousled hair, glowing face and rosy breasts swelling a half-laced gown drove away all his sleep.

"Not yet," she said. Pulling the covers to expose his muscled chest and lean waist, she pressed her hand against his taut belly and trailed one finger through the dusting of curls. "You have work to do."


	22. Jewels

Jewels

Duty kept the men in the City, inspecting posts and men at arms along the wall of the First Circle, having a word or two with the commanders and the occasional guardsman.

Then Faramir tapped the king on the shoulder. "Look," he said, pointing below to where the Pelennor began.

Two horses, grey and black, blazed like smoke across the field, now lush with a year's growth since the war's end. Two heads bent over the manes before them, braids, golden and raven, streaming like banners behind them. Skirts flew around bare feet, thighs gripped the sleek strong flanks of their mounts.

The men imagined more than heard the whoops of bliss as their wives raised their faces into the wind.

Aragorn turned, smiling, to his Steward. "My friend," he said, "we are the two luckiest men in Gondor."

From the gleam in Faramir's eye, he too was anticipating the coming night.


	23. Fugitive

Fugitive

Gilraen, Lady Isilmë of the House of Telcontar, was well hidden in the rocky slopes of Emyn Arnen. She huddled beneath an outcrop of stone and wished fervently that the rain would stop. The bad weather had one good feature, however: Any sign of her passage would now be washed away, if she had been so careless as to leave any. This was doubtful. After all, she had been trained in woodcraft by the greatest tracker and hunter in Gondor.

She intended to go back, when she was ready. She was not so childish as to dream of running away. Where—to Thranduil's kingdom, perhaps? Silliness. No, she would stay hidden for only a few days, just to teach them a lesson. Why had they made her come? She had to sit like a statue in Lord Faramir's great hall, princess-like, and talk politely to the emissary's daughter. Mother was "indisposed," they said. Ridiculous. She was never sick. But now, supposedly, even Lady Éowyn could not help her with entertaining the foreigner: she was too busy looking after mother.

If only it would not rain.

She had been so lonely since granny's death, for that was the name she had called her great-grandmother Ivorwen, who had died only three weeks earlier at the age of one hundred and fifty-five—an impressive age for a Númenorean woman in these late days, everyone said. Granny, who had sung to her at night and braided her thick, difficult hair. _Just like my daughter's_, she would laugh. _My little Gilraen._

She saw some movement through the woods down the slope and smiled with satisfaction. Already they were looking for her. _They will never find me._

After some moments bent down, examining the ground, the tracker followed her precise trail up the hillside. She watched the hooded and cloaked figure wend its way through the trees. _He looks just like papa,_ she thought, amused But soon the amusement began to flag._ He can't really be papa,_ she told herself, unconvinced. The man stopped and turned his head and she recognized, with dismay, that he was indeed the greatest tracker and hunter in Gondor. Within minutes he was standing on the slope beneath her tiny ledge and looking her in the face.

"Well," said her father.

She stared at him. Behind the relief in his eyes anger sparkled. He raised his arms. "Jump down," he commanded.

Sheepishly, she gathered her pack and pulled the hood over her head against the rain. She leaped the few feet down into his arms; he caught her with precision and set her on her feet. He looked her in the eyes. "You will never do this again," he said. "Come now."

She followed him down the hillside, rage battling with humiliation in her breast. And of all the unfair things, the rain stopped.

A half-mile away two mounted guardsmen stood, one holding her father's horse. The king mounted, and had the guardsman help his daughter mount before him. They set off to return to Faramir's hall.

She knew what was coming. He never shouted at her, never even scolded her. Instead, he would talk to her, and somehow he always made her see everything differently. But this time, she didn't want to see things differently. "You don't know what it's like, being eleven," she cried petulantly.

He chuckled. "You're right," he said. "I skipped that year. I went from ten to twelve."

She had to laugh then. "That's silly, papa."

"Yes," he said. "Therefore, you must admit I had to have been, once upon a time and very long ago, eleven." He was quiet for a while, as if remembering. Then he said, "Gilraen, it made me happier than I can tell you that granny could live with us for the last years of her life. I didn't know her as a boy, because, as you know, I was in Rivendell. That you knew her made up for missing that, somehow."

She began to cry. He kissed the back of her head and lifted a hand from the reins to squeeze her wrist. "Oh, papa," she said.

"Grief is hard, and we have left you too much alone," he said. "But there are reasons. Some, perhaps, you will not understand until you are older. Some are easier to explain. I have been trying to resolve through negotiation these differences with the people of Rhun. I fear I have failed, and there will be war."

She gasped. "I'm sorry, papa. Will you have to go away again?"

"If there is war, I must," he said. "There is never a good time for war, but this is by far the worst." He sighed. "You know your mother has been unwell."

Gilraen made a most unladylike snort. "I know better than to believe that," she said. "Mother does not get sick, no more than Legolas. And if she was sick, why didn't she stay home, anyway?"

"She should have stayed," he said. "I lost that argument. As for the rest, I wish you were right. The truth is, Gilraen, she is with child, and that is very difficult for the Eldar."

Well, that was a shock. She noted the mix of worry and happiness in her father's voice. "A little sister?" she said.

"You will have a brother," her father said. "But don't tell anyone that we know the child is a son. This is our secret. So, you see, I have much on my mind, because if I must leave for war, she will bear the child without me."

She thought this over. "But I will be here," she said.

"Yes, you will," he answered. "And that will be a very great comfort to all of us."

"I will be good," she said. "I promise, papa."

"Thank you," he said. "I knew I could count on you."

Years later, at the time of her father's death, she finally understood just what he meant.


	24. Bedtime Story

Bedtime Story

Aragorn was pleased that his duties were over in time for him to join his wife, for once, in a family ritual that he usually missed: putting the child to bed. Every night, after the nursemaids had bathed and dressed the young prince in his nightgown, the queen would dismiss them and take Eldarion to his bedchamber herself. She would tell him a story and then sing softly in her lovely voice, and Elven dreams and visions of great beauty would drift across his eyes, until they closed in a sound sleep.

The king strode through the nursery suite, and the maids dropped curtseys as he passed; they called out "my lord king," and he greeted them briefly with a smile and a nod. But when he turned into Eldarion's room, he met with a somewhat different scene from what he had expected. His four-year-old son was standing in the middle of the room, brandishing a wooden sword and shouting, "You might be a play-acting spy! What do you say to that?" Seeing his father, Eldarion put on a ferocious face and charged. "Strider!" he shouted.

"Arwen," the king said, as he held the small body whacking at him with the wooden sword. "What are you teaching our son?"

Arwen began to laugh helplessly at the sight of her husband's surprised face. "The Prancing Pony," she gasped. "I told him the story of the hobbits and the Ranger, and he just found out that you are Strider. He is being Sam. Such great timing!"

Aragorn closed his hand around the small arm brandishing the wooden sword. In fact, the scowl on his son's fair Elfin face bore an uncanny resemblance to Sam Gamgee's look of suspicious disapproval. He was about the right height, too. "That's enough, my son. Shall we discuss this, perhaps?" and he knelt down to look at his son face to face.

Eldarion let out a peal of delighted laughter and threw his arms around his father's neck. "Is it really true, papa? You are Strider?"

"Oh, it is really true," Aragorn said. "But you are Strider, too." He picked up the boy and they joined the queen on the bed.

"No, I'm not," the prince said. "I am Eldarion."

"And is Eldarion your only name?"

"I am the son of Elessar," he said proudly.

"And what is the name of our House?" Aragorn asked him.

"Oh!" the prince said. "Telcontar. Is that what you mean?"

"Most certainly. And that is 'Strider.'"

"Strider!" the boy shouted again. And he began strutting around the room. "Here is Eldarion being Strider."

"Arwen," Aragorn said to his wife, "promise me one thing."

"And what is that, my love?"

"Whatever you do, i _do not /i _ tell him about Gollum."


	25. Practice Makes Perfect

Practice Makes Perfect

"I'm sorry you did not bring your son with you," Legolas said. "Such a charming mix of both our races! How is the little demon?"

"As energetic as ever," said Aragorn. "Last week he attacked me with a toy sword, pretending to be Sam Gamgee at the Prancing Pony taking on the sinister Strider."

Legolas smiled. "I would have dearly loved to see that!"

"I asked Arwen to please omit any Gollum stories."

Legolas's smile broadened to a mischievous grin, and his eyes closed to slits.

"You would not!"

"Don't worry—I'll let him practice on me first."


	26. King Elessar's Peace

King Elessar's Peace

The old man brought his grandson to see the White Tree in springtime. After 100 years, it soared skyward, its branches embracing the sun. The blossoms rustled with a secret life.

"When my father fought in the War," he said, "the Tree was dead. But after Sauron was destroyed, the King found a sapling. Now our city is filled with laughter and gardens and schools of medicine, music, and astronomy. Instead of wielding a sword, you will make books on Master Falborn's new printing press. I am glad, my boy, that you live in the days of King Elessar's Peace."


End file.
